


(break open) ain't no (honk friend)

by oncewewerezombies



Series: Homesmut fills : Box of Bad [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Guro, Mob Violence, Slurs, curbstomp, hemoflip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 02:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5357333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Any troll, body horror.</p><p>  <a href="http://vertebraeaker.tumblr.com/post/132760606519/signs-as-gurogore-tropes">These.</a></p><p>capricorn: street fights escalated to bashed in skulls, curb stomps & bloody broken noses</p>
            </blockquote>





	(break open) ain't no (honk friend)

**Author's Note:**

> Not a hemoswap, hemoflip!Gamzee Makara.

It’s a nice night, cool out, breeze from the harbour bring the scent of salt and waves, smelling like your wigglerhood hive. It’s coming onto dawn in a few hours, and you walk slow and satisfied through the streets from your kismesis’ hive, licking golden blood from under your claws every so often. Tastes like honey and sunlight, and pure concentrated loathing. He is a motherfucking wonder, and no mistake. You’re sore through the top to the bottom of your walking fronds, aching across your thoracic struts. Feels like motherfucking miracles, the way he meets your physical strength with psionic power. So fucking loathsome, him and his sneer, his lisp, him and his cushy life with a top of the pile moirail. You just want to punch his crooked fangs right out of his fucking mouth every time he opens it.

Maybe it’s not serendipitous or anything, but it is right fucking pleasing to get your loathing on with that double-horned motherfucker.

You hear unsettling sounds as you near the marketplace and you _were_ planning on picking up a little near-dawn snack, but you’re two thoroughfares away when you decide to just make do with whatever you’ve got in your hive, and leave well enough alone. There’s been a lot of anticoolblood feelings drifting around lately, and you know something unfunny is in the air, you can smell it. Something’s going on, and you don’t want to be fucking mixed up in it. You got enough troubles on your shoulders as it is, living where you do, the blood you got, and you’re a faithful follower of the Mirthful Messiahs besides. A lot of hotbloods take unkind and cruel attention to a kin and their devotions, especially when you wear them plain and open on your face in blessed paint.

Still, a brother oughta follow what was up and welling in his pusher, and the words of the Scriptures speak to you like blessings and miracles in every syllable. You couldn’t do otherwise than what you do. And words in a book are all well and good for spiritual times, but right now you kinda amp up your long-legged stride as you hear the voices behind you snarl. There’s a tenor and a rhythm that says get out, and you are up and fucking hearing it. You might indulge in sopor and Faygo to keep your chill up and flowing, but you are not as stupid as any other troll might like to think you are.

“There’s one! Fucking frigid!”

You book it like the swift motherfucker you are.

Streets you are familiar with become dead-ends when you don’t expect them to, you hear the snarl and roar behind you like a sea, full of rage and storm, no matter what steps and turns you take. The mob might not have been looking for you to start, but they’re all happy to find you now. You can hear furious voices behind you as you gasp, your pusher running too hard and hot in your chest, your aeration sacks clenching for air. Pulling into an alley, you huddle behind a dented rubbish receptacle and put your fronds over your maw, trying to make yourself quieter. You’re hiding. You are a fucking stone. You’re nothing.

You’re Gamzee Makara and all you wanted to do in these almost morning hours was walk off the righteous fucking pailing you got from your kismesis and maybe buy a box of sugar grubs with some spare caegars before slipping into your ‘coon.

You really didn’t up and think you were asking for all that motherfucking much, even with your shitty icewater blood.

Hearing voices and angry steps go past your hiding place, you pull yourself up even tighter into a grubcurl and hope to Messiah Merciful that your horns aren’t poking out. Usually, you like your horns. They all long and graceful, spiralling, you can get your clash on with a kismesis like no one’s fucking business and your moirail loves to get his handle on of them. Clean them up. So pale and careful with his fronds when he gets his care on of you. You want him right now, his hot miraculous graspers on your face and his rough growl telling you how much of a failure and panleak you are. Your oculars are aching and leaking and you’re scared, you might be a coldblood but you’re not old enough to get the strength and muscle that you might grow if you can manage through another few sweeps. You’re just you.

Right now, your horns are a motherfucking liability and you wish real hard for nubs like your moirail’s. Like they could just motherfucking shrink, that’d be a real miracle and you need one. You need one so bad. All the prayers you can offer to Messiah Merciful, you do, you hope and wish for a real miracle, right now. You are in need, most strait and desperate and you hope She’s got an auricular clot open for a pathetic mess like you.

The pattering of feet gets quieter, the snarling goes away and you wait. You wait. You’re a patient one when you have your need of it, you can wait. A rock, a stone, you’re nothing. You smell the stink of your own fear, the rotting garbage, and you let yourself step aside into the holes of your thinkpan. Sit and let the dirty water drip down the back of your neck, like a rock would.

Quiet.

You uncurl slowly, and crawl out from the hole you’ve made for yourself in the gap behind the trash container. You’ll go the other way to the one they went. When you want, you can be a creepy sneaky motherfucker, even as tall as you are. On slow and careful walk nubs, you get out of the alley and look around, get your bearings. Maybe. You better go uptown, get away from this wretched sicknasty mess in the coldblood quarter. Your kismesis is out, that is for certain sure, you would never fucking admit that you need his help, but. Your moirail. You can go to your moirail, your Karbro has been getting his shriek on about you all up and moving out of your shitty hivestem with its leaking roof and in with him for a while now, this’ll make him happy. You always put him off before, but now. You want his hot hands on your face and along your horns, and you _need him_ , you are unfucking chill and you are in deep fear and terror of the hotbloods you are alone among. When things like this happen, scripture and verse is very motherfucking clear on what a brother is to do – get thee forth to thy righteous quadrants and those who hold you in sweet pity.

You slouch and try to make yourself look smaller, squarer, like a warmblood as you keep close to the buildings you walk by. Your step is hurried and you’re trying not to run, you don’t want to draw attention. Left and up, then right, and right again. You circle around the market and make your way back towards more heated areas, out of the slums. You wish the motherfucking honey-eater hadn’t torn your jacket, you’re visibly out of place in highblood places as it was, let alone with clothes that look worn and busted. Fuck. Fuck everything. You’re a moving target and what you need is to get undercover; probably some rusty or copper young bloods looking to stir shit up, prove how strong they are by gathering up and beating up seascum and icecolds.

You pick up the pace and get your motherfucking move on. You’ll be with your moirail soon and he’ll make you something to eat and help you calm down, get his hot rough palms up against your face. Oh, fuck, it sounds like the best motherfucking idea you’ve had for nights. You keep your peepers down and your nubs striding along, nothing to see, nothing to bother with.

“Hey, clown trash.”

Flinching, you tuck your chin tighter against your chest and keep walking, just a little faster now. You’re a pace or two off a run, and you hope you can leave that sneering voice behind with no trouble. If you don’t respond, he might just let you go. Get bored with no response. Something is straight up wrong with the night, and you wonder what new preacher got their windchute blaring hate and all towards everyone colder than teal. Something’s unsettled the populace in a unfuckingrighteous way, and you know who always gets the sharp end of the poking implement when that happens. It’s you. It’s any fin-haver, any painted face, you bet something very unfriendly happened to some poor motherfucker in the market, and now the high and mighty are engaged in making sure the low and humble like yourself are properly cowed. And afraid.

They got you square alright, you are motherfucking all kinds of unchill right now.

“Hey, I’m fucking talking to you!”

You run. 

You _fly_.

You can lose them, you know you can, you’ll outpace and outlast them, you’ve got that coldblood stamina on your side. Nngh, fuck, your walking struts are burning, you haven’t run like this for sweeps and beebro pailed you like it was a mirthful holiday for the whole next cycle. Nope, running, not thinking on it. You recognise the streets you’re on, and you know you’re not that far off that bakery that Karbro likes to get evening snacks from, those miraculous little pastry-nubs with the sweet icing. Just push on a little more and you’ll be out of coldblood quarters, and you’ll be heading up the peaceful street that your moirail lives on and everything will be fucking _great_. Safe, you’ll be safe with one who holds you in palest and most serendipitous pity.

The tip of your sneaker digs into a crack your oculars take no note on and you trip, stumble. You automatically tuck your head and lean to one side to take the fall on your shoulder, keep your horns out of the ground and grunt as you hit. Scrabbling to something like upright, your graspers are stinging like crazy and you’re leaving droplets of purple on the ground but you’re up. You’re up and you sneak a look back over your shoulder, and there’s like. More of the fuckers, more than a brother could have anticipated to be following. They should have got bored of you already, especially since your fronds were firmly leading you to more law-abiding parts, where a mess up on their streets was something they did not a-fucking-bide. They’re not bored. They ain’t tired of you yet. 

There’s that deep growl you thought you’d left behind and you skitter sideways as you see another crowd of trolls heading from the other direction. Shit. Shit! You make a break for a gap in the crowd, putting your shoulder down and angling your head as though to gore, letting out a rough rumbling snarl as you do. Clowns are crazy and everyone knows that, you’ll use it to your advantage if you can right now. You hit a big bronze-blooded sister in the thorax and bounce back, turn your almost-fall into something like a spin to keep yourself upright and you put your graspers out, palms out, open-empty-defenceless as you back away. Fuuuuck. You shouldn’t have tried to charge, or fight back, you know better, that’s how your face got all clawed up when you were a wiggler.

Not a threat, no threat at all. You got nothing, ain’t nothing and you can’t see one scrap of anything other than flat platonic hate in any sight orb you do make contact with. Everything in your body is cold, colder than the deeps and you’re. Oh shit, you’re in trouble now. You are _praying_ to Messiah Merciful like She might be standing next to you and hear you in your time of need.

“H-hey now, brothers and sisters, ain’t no need for all this, just, I’m just getting my travel on to my moirail’s,” you say, starting shaky and keeping your eyes down. Hopefully you haven’t pailed the barkfiend by getting your charge on to start. Stupid, you’re such a motherfucking panleak drop dead moron, your moirail is so right about that. You’re gonna be the baabeast, the cluckbird in this situation, you gonna be so meek and mild, milk’ll want to be you. You drop your shoulders, try to keep your horns from pointing at them and look as unlike a problem as you can. Guess that’s hard, since in the eyes of most heated motherfuckers, your paint is always a problem. Even when it’s a smile. “No trouble looked for here, just…”

“Trouble is what you clowns fucking bring with you; it’s like a disease,” a brother’s voice snarls, and you hunch and drop your shoulders more. Try not to angle your horns like you’re looking for a fight, and. Fuck. You can’t. You can’t show them your throat, you can’t submit that much, if you do, they’ll be on you like quackbirds on a chunk of grubloaf. “Sewerblood!”

Your fronds are still out and pointed at them, no weapon, no harm, dripping blood down into the cuffs of your coldweather casual-overtop, you dart your eyes from side to side. No way out. No escape. You’re so motherfucking stupid. You should have gone straight hive, what did you even want sugargrubs for anyway. Sugargrubs are for wigglers. “Ch-chill, motherfuckers, I ain’t up to nothin’ except going to my fucking _moirail_ ,” you plead the case of your pity to them in desperate, needing tones, and all you get back is a snarl like it’s coming from a vast fang-filled maw, and it is _motherfucking hungry_.

The first punch to your face shouldn’t surprise you, but it does. You didn’t do anything to hurt them, and suddenly your whole ocular is exploding with pain. Knocked back onto your ass, you grunt and that’s only the beginning. A walking nub comes at you from one side and you roll, you stagger to your fronds and you try to break out of the circle closing in on you. This time, you snarl and hiss and get your claws out, fangs bared. You aim to fight your way out of this trap and you will take anyone who gets in your way.

You draw a scything arc of copperblood with your claws from a reaching arm and the crowd roars.

Everything in your pusher beats fear, beats need, and you would do anything to see anytroll you knew the sight of, even your kismesis. Oh wouldn’t that be fucking bitchtits, see him send these others flying with a red and blue blast – even if it would mean you owed him later. Even then. Even motherfucking then, and you hope Messiah Merciful hears you because you think someone just broke one of your thoracic struts.

You’re thrown back onto the ground in the centre, and you wheeze as you curl onto your side. Someone kicks you in the face and your sniffnode _cracks_ in one of the most unfunny noises you have ever heard. You can’t breathe. You snort and choke on your own blood as daggers stab you behind your oculars and you try to get up again. You have to get out of here, you gotta, you need to get to your moirail. You need his heated hands and his low rough growl. That perfect pity in which he finds you, and oh Lord and Lady Twain and Twin, you are motherfucking pitiful for any enough to find now.

Why they doing this to you? You didn’t want a fight, you tried your fucking hardest not to, to _motherfucking appease_. And this is what they gave you, _this is the reward for your motherfucking peace_. Messiah Merciful ain’t listening, _maybe it’s time for some good old fashioned rage_. You can almost hear the switch in the back of your thinkpan go _click_ , click, _click motherfucker_. They’re gonna pay. Oh, and they will _all up_ and motherfucking _pay_.

This time the deep snarl you let out has them going back a few steps, and your whole braincase feels heavy and sore, as you get back on your fronds. Sway. You let your gaze go over the crowd and you pick your target and this time you go straight for the noisechute. You’re gonna pick _his bones_ out of your _motherfucking fangs_. This they’re not expecting, they thought it would be just some poor bastard sitting waiting for them to chew up and spit out. Down the gulping maw, into the belly of the beast. Only, you ain’t planning on being _an easy fuckin mouthful_.

There’s blood in your dentition grill, your mouth, and you _laugh_. They thought you were the baabeast, they got the howlfiend resting inside underneath and you’re going to make them pay. Everything running through your blood chants _make them pay_ , make them pay, _make them pay_ and you’re planning on motherfucking delivering. You’ve got a wicked inventory of hurt they tried to up and put on you, and you’re going to put it back on them _with interest_. 

Someone’s screaming, and you turn quick as a cornered slinkbeast and rake your claws down another one’s face. You step from one spot to another, so fast that they can’t follow, you’re lightning, you’re _rage_ and you don’t even feel it when they get their hit on of you. They motherfucking _feel it_ when you put your hurt on _them_.

You are motherfucking blessed and you laugh with the strength of the Messiah Rageful in you.

You grab a sister’s horns, jagged as they are to the soft spaces of your grasper, all curls and spikes, and pull her face right down into your knee as you bring it up. Let go as her face shatters on your limb, and move, you gotta keep _on your motherfucking toes_. The thought of running is a thought that has left you by, Messiah Merciful has abandoned you to this and you’re _all up_ and _in arm_ with Messiah Raging now. Someone grabs you by the horn and you use the momentum to twist and kick them in the bonesheath. Makes them let go, and that’s all you need. Your claws bring a splash of rusty-red and it splatters across your face.

“Come on, brothers and sisters, _you wanted to fucking fight me_ , come on and MOTHERFUCKING FIGHT!”

Everything descends into a maelstrom of claws and teeth, you gore someone with the spiralling length of your horns and that moment of pause is all they need. A body jumps on your back and takes you down, your horns ring against the pavement in a way that makes your thinkpan _explode in an unfunny fucking way_ , and you cough-spray blood over the frond-covering that slams into your maw. Spit a fang out, and try to get back up. You have to get back up.

On the ground, you’re dead and dying, you’re gone, you’re only alive as _you motherfucking rise up_.

You do not rise. Not by your own power and doing, at least.

Someone drags you by the horns, in what previous to now have only had fronds grasp at them in _most motherfucking pale_ to the curb of the street. You’re covered in dirt, in blood, every breath you take is wet. Tastes salt-sour of blood, you would get your gnaw on of almost anything to get the taste from your tongue. They make you get your bite on of the curb, using your panstrands and your glorious horns as handles to set you up for what they got all planned for next. 

Oh fuck. No. Fuck no.

“One,” a cheer, and you struggle to rise. Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck! Get your graspers at the streetstones and you try to lift your head. They push you down and your fangs grate over the poured shapestone that makes up the curbing. That they have spread your maw over, your biggest brightest fangs in the top and your lower jaw scraping against the side. “Two!” The taste of dirt and metal in your mouth and you snarl. Your walking fronds push and scrabble against the street, tips sliding over the gaps as you struggle to get this weight off your back. Shit! Any Messiah listening now, your need for help is now motherfucking dire, you will take anything fucking going! “Three!”

You only thought your pan exploded before, because _now it fucking does_ as someone jumps on your head and your top fangs go flying in every direction. You feel the crack go through your thinkpan like a planetquake, hard and hot and so much pain that you howl. You scream like a dying beast and puke blood, you howl and wail and your voice is a shriek of agony reaching for the heavens like a clawing and hungering thing. You are defanged, you are stripped bare and you _lift your voice_ like a calamitous warning to any and all. Your jaw hangs loose and wrong and you can’t see, everything is a blinding light like staring straight into the day orb. As stupid as you are, you ain’t never done that but you feel like this feeling is something like that would be like.

This time someone gets your grasper up on the curb and there’s another jump, you shudder and vomit purple as the crowd lets up another cheer and you feel the agony shudder its way through you as they break your grasper-hinge. And again. You can’t see, you can’t think, all you can do is howl. _Karkat_ , best beloved, most pale, _you want your motherfucking moirail_ , Karkat, Karkat, Karkat, you can’t make your mouth shape his name no more. Your lips will not bring themselves to anything but your howling, your animal wailing and you can’t find a feeling in you that isn’t born in pain.

When someone does the jump thing on one of your horns, you jerk like someone ran a lightning strike though your mortal body and sob. It shatters on the curb like your fangs just did, and your skullcase feels wrong and off balance, you’re broken. Everything is acid-tinged, scalding deep pain as you sob and bleed and break, you are a dead doll in their unrighteous hands. What there was of rage leaves you bare, you are weak and unworthy and Messiah Raging flees you like clouds from the wind. You are left alone, you feel no blessing, you are broken and your thinkpan is ringing.

Inside your braincase, you can only feel acid. Burning. Every time you move your head, you are unbalanced. You are reminded that your fangs now lie like white jewels on black velvet, discarded, shattered. You are broken. You are wrong. You are so motherfucking alone and you are weak as salt water.

Hauled upright you’re weak in their hands, so hot and so wrong, all hot against you, oh Messiahs Twice Blessed, you want your moirail. Your head hangs, you are off-balance and _everything is wrong_ , you can’t feel your graspers and all you can get out of your mouth is blood and sobbing. You are a mess of tears and blood, you are _nothing_ , you are broken and all up back to front and up to down all out _wrong_. 

It’s almost a relief when the twined-fibrestrands of a noose drop around your proteinchute and you’re hoisted up. You thrash, you kick but the nothing opens in front of you and you can hope for having deeds enough to get entrance but you doubt you’ll be in anything like the ringside seats. There’s so much regret in you. You regret, so many things and you wish the most that you could lay your gaze on your palest love one more time. Just the last once.

All you see is the ones who have brought you low, and they are motherfucking laughing as you twist in the open air.

You are done.

You’re motherfucking finished.


End file.
